What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Ken sends the first chapter of Freefall. The rest of the chapter follows the break.

Dammit, Angie! Where are you?

Mark Petrie swept a glare around the mist-dimmed space above the skyline, but of course his other sense felt none of Angie’s magic out there. Why should tonight be any different?

But at least, he sensed no flicker of Winton spying on him either.

The thought pushed his feet faster along the pavement, and he left Claremont Road’s nighttime murmurs behind and twisted up Smithson, then across Teal until the November-chilled streets thinned their crowds down to empty sidewalks. Olivia Nolan’s pale-blue car sat next to a shuttered shop, almost right under the meeting place they’d picked.

He adjusted the bag of tools at his side—though they’d never be as useful as the simple leather belt that the bag hung from, or the other belt hidden under his shirt. His shoulder had barely ached in the cold so far; the bullet wound was healing faster than the doctors had expected.

One more glance around. The back street was as deserted as it seemed.

Mark’s will tightened around the magic in the belts, and he scampered up the wall.

His fingers barely touched the cold metal of the drainpipe; that light grip was all he needed. With his weight all but wiped away by the power, he could ride the pipe up as fast as his hands could pull him up. If someone came by below he’d be out of their view in moments, and (snip)

I like that we start with someone doing something and that there’s magic involved. But, when you boil this opening action down to its essence, what do you have: someone is going somewhere to do something—and we don’t know what the somewhere and something are.

There’s no real hint of jeopardy, except that he’s being sneaky. If you look at the first-page checklist, you’ll see that the part about something either going wrong or has already gone wrong, something that challenges the character, isn’t here. Consider starting with the break-in and weave the other characters in later. There is some overwriting to consider, and the use of filters, which I’ll point out with some editorial notes.

Dammit, Angie! Where are you?

Mark Petrie swept a glare around the mist-dimmed space above the skyline, but of course his other sense felt none of Angie’s magic out there. Why should tonight be any different?

But at least, he sensed no flicker of Winton spying on him either.

The thought pushed his feet faster along the pavement., and he left Claremont Road’s nighttime murmurs behind and twisted up Smithson, then across Teal until the November-chilled streets thinned their crowds down to empty sidewalks.Olivia Nolan’s pale-blue car sat next to a shuttered shop, almost right under the meeting place they’d picked. "His feet" is a body-part filter--have the thought push him, the person, not his body parts. The deleted part is overwriting--the streets and their names don't matter to the story. Get on with it.

He adjusted the bag of tools at his side—though they’d never be as useful as the simple leather belt that the bag hung from, or the other belt hidden under his shirt. His shoulder had barely ached in the cold so far; the bullet wound was healing faster than the doctors had expected. Bag of tools too vague. Give a hint. If they're burglary tools, that adds to the suspense. It's not a "simple leather belt," it's a magic belt. Also, the part about his shoulder seems like a non sequitur here. Later it's explained that the magic from the belt(s) may be helping him heal. The place to put the shoulder narrative is when he's scampering up the wall of the shop. That's when the shoulder comes into play, not now.

One more glance around. The back street was as deserted as it seemed. Don't need this.

Mark’s will tightened around the magic in the belts, and he scampered up the shop wall.

His fingers barely touched the cold metal of the drainpipe; that light grip was all he needed. With his weight all but wiped away by the power, he could ride the pipe up as fast as his hands could pull him up. If someone came by below he’d be out of their view in moments, and (snip) His fingers is another body-part filter. He barely touched ...etc.

The edits are just to point out places the narrative could be stronger, crisper. I'd still look for a place later to start this. And I'd avoid introducing so many names in the opening pages--keep it focused on what's happening. For what it’s worth.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

JL sends the first chapter of The Rescue. The first 17 lines follow, the rest is after the break.

“Is anyone here?” Leonora whispered into an empty room of the plantation home. She listened carefully but heard only muffled voices from the parlor.

She moved on to the next room. Nearly everything that could be moved was already staged for the auction. “Anyone in here?” she whispered.

“Yes, I am,” said a loud voice that made Leonora jump. She saw then, standing in front of the bright window but obscured by a heavy fringed curtain, one of the auctioneer’s assistants. “Can I help you find something?”

Leonora backed into the hallway. “Just looking around.”

She proceeded through the bottom floor of the house, whispering into rooms and listening. More people arrived as the time for the auction approached, but still no more than 20 or so. She made her way to the main hall just as the auctioneer directed everyone to the front parlor.

Instead of joining them, she crossed the hall and entered the sitting room, crowded with furniture awaiting the auction block. A woman in white tennis shorts and a visor squinted at a fortepiano near the hall door. Leonora listened. From the far side of the room, she heard a small voice singing.

Though the last goodbye is spoken, and we breathe our farewell song, on the past, how (ship)

The voice is clear and the writing strong. We open with an immediate scene in which something is happening. There is a sense of mystery about the character going from room to room asking if anyone is there.

Actually, it would be more effective if she first scans a room, sees nothing, and then asks the question. In the room where the woman is, she should see the woman and still ask her question. This clues the reader that what she’s doing doesn’t make sense . . . and that there must be a reason for it yet to be discovered. The mystery deepens.

But is what’s here enough? Is the “what’s she doing” story question strong enough? I don’t think so. Reading on, it seems that this is a ghost story, but we don’t have a clue yet. With editing, this first page could have that clue and create a stronger interest in turning the page. Here’s what I mean (the edited version). A poll follows.

“Is anyone here?” Leonora whispered into an empty room of the plantation home. She heard only muffled voices from auction in the parlor.

She moved on to the next room. A woman stood in front of a window. Lenora whispered, “Anyone in here?” she whispered.

“Yes, I am,” the woman said with a loud voice that made Leonora jump. “Can I help you find something?”

Leonora backed into the hallway. “Just looking around.”

She entered the sitting room, crowded with furniture awaiting the auction block. A woman in white tennis shorts squinted at a fortepiano. Leonora heard a small voice singing.

Though the last goodbye is spoken, and we breathe our farewell song, on the past, how memory lingers…

She saw no one there. She crossed the room and asked, “Is anyone here?”

The woman snorted. “Hello-oo,” she said.

The small voice continued, heavy with a Southern accent. Lo! The future! Hope’s bright fingers, lift new crowns, and beckon on…

It didn’t matter how hard she looked, she knew she could never see them unless they wanted to be seen. “You have a lovely singing voice,” Leonora said toward the wall.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Alison sends the first chapter of a lower YA fantasy, The Girl with the Dragon-racoon. The first 17 lines follow, the rest is after the break.

Twenty minutes into her journey, and with at least twenty more to come, Emma fought the urge to pull into a side road and turn around, her irritation at being deceived rising. Not that she should have been surprised, given all the other instances where the truth had been bent a little. This would have to be the last time, whatever happened. She’d had enough.

Time, alarmingly, was marching on. Maybe a straight section of road would be just around the next corner, and she’d be able to go a little faster. At least to the speed limit. She rounded the bend, peering ahead, and the sight that greeted her had her hitting the brake hard, teeth clenched, hands tight around the steering wheel. A flatbed truck was approaching, only on her side of the road as it attempted to pass another vehicle.

The truck swung back to its own side, tipping perilously as it did so, and the driver, erudite fellow as he must have been, leaned out of his open window and flicked her a V sign whilst mouthing furious profanities.

Emma’s mouth fell open and she watched the truck disappear through her rear view mirror. Charming, she thought. Well good luck to him. It mattered little to her that his life expectancy would likely be short, but she felt sorry for any innocent party he might end up taking out with him. It was a scary thought – destiny dictating that you would cross paths with the likes of him, and being a safe and conscientious driver would matter not. Your fate would be (snip)

The writing is just fine in this opening, and it does open with an immediate scene. There’s a bit of tension with the oncoming truck, but that’s soon resolved. Emma is anxious, needing to get somewhere without breaking a time limit.

But where? Why? Does something on this page endanger her from achieving her goal? What are the stakes of not being on time? If it’s a job interview, it could mean the loss of the opportunity—but we don’t know that. And how bad can that be?

And that’s the primary problem for me with this opening. There’s no hint of what the story is about, it is devoted solely to driving to somewhere, and nothing goes wrong with that. In a recent post on Writer Unboxed, author Kathyn Craft says this:

Effective opening scenes orient your reader to a story’s core conflict while raising pertinent questions about the plot to come.

That’s basically what I advocate here on FtQ. In this opening scene, we don’t have an idea of what the story is about, much less its core conflict (and I’m talking about the whole chapter here, not just the first page). There are no story questions raised. No stakes related to either action or inaction. In other words, no tension to drive a reader to turn the page.

I think we have here a narrative that starts way too soon in the arc of the story. This is all setup, not story. The writing is good and Alison has a clear grasp of her character, so I encourage her to look further for the place where something goes wrong for Emma that is related to the story and begins to show how she deals with it. And there should be meaningful stakes—not getting a job is, ordinarily, not a terrible event.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Barbara sends the first chapter of a lower YA fantasy, The Girl with the Dragon-racoon. The first 17 lines follow, the rest is after the break.

James Bond got it all wrong. Spy work wasn’t exciting. It sucked. Badly.

Tyro wiped her clammy hands on the skirt of her school uniform, staring at the darn filing cabinet in Mum’s dental clinic office. The blasted thing didn’t want to open, no matter how hard Tyro pulled the handle. Even the keys she’d found in the desk drawer didn’t work. When Mum said she took her clients’ privacy seriously, she meant it. As if having rotten teeth and cavities was such a huge secret.

Tyro turned to the closed door of the office. Mum’s voice drifted from the waiting room as she talked with a patient. Renzy, the receptionist, chatted on the phone in her high-pitched voice that could splinter rocks. No one should enter the office for now unless Mum needed one of her patients’ files.

Tyro grabbed a pair of scissors from the desk and slid a blade into the narrow gap over the top drawer of the cabinet. Applying a light pressure, she fiddled with the metal hook that locked the drawer. No luck. It didn’t budge.

“Blast!” She tossed the scissors on the desk, kicked the cabinet, and grimaced when a loud thud resounded. If Mum caught Tyro snooping around, she’d ground her forever. But Mum had put the report from the police in the cabinet, and Tyro needed to read it. The police might’ve discovered something about Dad’s murderer. She swallowed the knot that clogged her throat every time she (snip)

I like the voice, which feels right for a teenage girl. The scene is set, and the action is clear. But, for me, maybe there was too much of the latter—even though there was a good story-question hook in the last line about her Dad’s murder. There are fun and interesting paranormal elements to this world, but no hint on the first page. IMO, way too much time is spent on working on the cabinet.

Rather than doing an extensive commentary, I’m just going to edit and move good stuff onto the first page. A second poll follows. Meanwhile, this world does seem very entertaining, and a murder in a paranormal world could be fun.

For what it’s worth.

Revised version:

James Bond got it all wrong. Spy work wasn’t exciting. It sucked. Badly. Tyro wiped her clammy hands on her skirt, staring at the darn filing cabinet in Mum’s dental clinic office. The keys she’d found in the desk wouldn’t open it. Mum took her clients’ privacy seriously. As if having rotten teeth and cavities was such a huge secret.

But she wouldn’t quit. Mum had put the police report in the cabinet, and the police might’ve discovered something about Dad’s murderer. She swallowed the knot that clogged her throat every time she thought about Dad.

The cabinet key had to be in a place where no one would ever search like … the forbidden fridge. It stood in a corner, half-covered by a giant rhododendron, and contained food for Mum’s not-human patients. Not-human … monstrous was more like it.

Tyro went to the fridge, her sneakers leaving marks on the blue rug a vampire had once ripped in two after reading the bill for cleaning his fangs.

She crouched and read the bright red letters on the sign that said, “Underworld-lings food only, not adapted for human consumption. Keep out of the reach of children.” The warning had to be exaggerated. Vampires, werewolves, and zombies had to eat something normal people would enjoy. They had bad teeth like humans, judging by how busy Mum’s schedule was.

She opened the door one inch at a time as if handling a bomb. A rancid smell, like a (snip)

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Michelle sends the first chapter of Colorless Rainbows . The first 17 lines follow, the rest is after the break.

He approached her beneath the street light—his cold, inhuman glare never faded even as she pleaded for him to stop. Up went the gun, too fast. BAM. BAM. BAM.

A tingly wave rushes into my head. I can’t move because my feet are tangled between the legs of my desk chair and my left shoulder is searing with pain. I’m lying on the floor—not sitting upright like I was five seconds ago wishing I was elsewhere.

I open my eyes slowly, and voices pop up from all directions:

“Emily, are you okay…?”

“Hi, I have a student who just collapsed onto the floor—”

“Help her up…”

Two pairs of arms hoist me up off the floor. I yell about the pain in my shoulder, so the two guys lifting me shift their hands around until I stop wincing. My head starts to ache, and I feel nauseated. I don’t think I’m going to throw up, though maybe I did already and just don’t realize it. The noise of the panic around me makes it impossible to hear myself think.

The last thing I remember was Ms. Lennon droning on and on about the significance of Lady Macbeth scrubbing her hands while sleepwalking. I was also thinking about how I should have had breakfast at home. I had planned on getting French toast sticks in the cafeteria but (snip)

The voice and writing are good, and the scene definitely opens with something going wrong for the protagonist. The italicized first paragraph is also interesting and contains jeopardy. But how well does it all work together?

I assumed that the opening paragraph—let’s call it the “vision”—was directly related to Emily waking up on the floor of her classroom. But then confusion set in when the last paragraph tells us that the last thing she remembers is the teacher droning on and on—and not the vision. So is the vision not connected to what happens to her? If not, then why is it there?

For me, it seems like the vision needs to be tied more firmly to Emily’s experience. We should know for sure that it was her vision and it was the reason for her passing out. That leads to strong story questions. As it is, the lack of clarity is a barrier to turning the page. For example, what if the story opens with Emily's eyelids drooping as the teacher drones and then the vision hits her, things go black, and then she wakes up on the floor. Now we know that the two are connected and we want to know more.

There are a few edits to suggest. The first is to have hands help her up, not arms. A second is to eliminate the part about the guys shifting their hands around—just let her yell about her pain and get on with it. Maybe the hands should help her sit in her desk chair—it seems as though she continues to stand. My vote would be to help her sit. A third is to cut the part about hearing herself think—just let us know that the noise makes it impossible for her to think. BTW, the phrase “to hear myself think” is a cliché that should be avoided.

The rest of the chapter is a straightforward accounting of going to the nurse’s office and some backstory. But the tension level stays pretty flat because there’s no more connection to the vision, and no more story questions are raised. Her assumption is that she just fell asleep and doesn't think about the vision at all. IMO it should be remembered and worry her. I suspect this story could start later, or that most of the business about going to the nurse can be cut to get us directly to something really going wrong that’s connected to the vision.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Vicky sends the introduction and first chapter for a fantasy romance, A Man’s Face. The first 17 lines of both part follow, the rest is after the break.

Introduction

Tenswislo Artuvencha, the twelfth Grand Duke of Accomplishments, invented among other things; a two-handled egg whip, a door carriage that transported to all the rooms of the house, and a hip mirror to help a person study their own backside. But those weren’t the accomplishments he became famous for. Actually there was only one accomplishment that was worth anything; The Towering Tenswislo Sandcastle Builder.

I’d pondered the builder on many occasions. The sandcastles were marvelous. I’d explored them for years, and yet I hadn’t come to define them. I was working on theory really, trying to find a way to bring legend to life. It was all based on sand and the miracles Tenswislo formed out of it. I was an unusual person to still remain so involved; the bulk of the population had given up wondering why the invention worked so well. I remembered seeing Tenswislo standing in front of an audience of scientists once which, it was rumored, most of whom thought he was crazy.

“Put your laws away,” the Grand Duke had croaked. “Sand is too simple for laws. There’s no magic in sand, unless you can find magic in rock. But watch,” he added, reaching in a bowl, scooping up a handful of golden, pliable grains of sand, and then spilling it down, back into the bowl.

“All sizes,” he whispered. “Some like dust, some like tiny pebbles. Some so small you (snip)

Not all sand can be found in the desert. There was sand bordering the ocean too. In the large city of Megund of the vacationers left the heated streets in the summertime and retired to the beach at Azarah to play. Rugged and beautiful mountains rimmed the waters. The water crashed to shore with foamy white caps and a turquoise gleam of purity. Here you could find tourist towns that sold shells and driftwood furniture, and bright holiday clothing. The people built houses to stay in that boarded up for the winter and opened to the sea air in the summer. Inns and hotels bloomed near the pristine shoreline. Even some castles were built for the wealthy to stay and run along the edge of the water in new sandals and summer dress.

But none of those hotels or castles, wooden shanties or bungalows was as beautiful, ornately constructed or as natural as the sandcastle that had its first wall set where the water flooded all around it at high tide. This sandcastle was the first one Tenswislo had ever built. Situated in a deserted spot here the beach curved like the inside of a bowl. And the sandcastle rose from the sand, tall with pinnacles, room after room squared off in smooth luxury. When children settle on the beach with shovel and pail this is the sandcastle they dream of building. It was a place of dreams, of sand walls shimmering in the sun like diamonds and amber. Here more than anywhere else I believed in Uncle Tenswislo’s words. I knew I had to discover the world that he’d gotten lost in. Walking deep inside the hallways of the sandcastle built by the ocean I (snip)

I enjoyed the writing in these pages. And the Introduction did arouse my curiosity. Sand castles are nifty things. So far, so good. However . . .

For me, entertaining writing and curiosity aren’t enough. In neither page did I learn what this story is about as far as the protagonist is concerned. Sand castles, yes, but what about them? And there’s an ambiguity that I would like resolved—what is the size of these sand castles? In looking further, it seems that they are large enough for people to go into—you learn that the protagonist lives in the one on the beach. And they are permanent, otherwise the tide would wash away the beach castle. But this isn’t clear, and I think it should be. It would enhance the appeal of the world and the mystery of the sand castles.

Despite the interesting world that’s being created here—and most of this does seem to be world-building—the character never has a problem to solve, an event in his life that he has to deal with. Nothing is wrong, and there’s nothing on the horizon that could go wrong. These passages lack story questions, which means they lack the tension needed to reach the level of compelling. I think this story needs to start later, when something happens to the character that he must deal with. That event is not in the first chapter, as far as I can see. Your thoughts?

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Michelle sends the prologue for a A Man’s Face. The first 17 lines follow, and the rest of the chapter is after the break.

She only wants to light a small fire, just something to ease her stress and pain. One keg is all she needs. The wood will be quick to ignite and the promise of yellow and orange flames flickering and glowing in the dark fills her with anticipation.

The fire lighting started with little things, like playing with matches as a child and watching paper burn in the trash can in her room. At first it was a bizarre curiosity, but now, as her personal pain intensifies the need for thrills grows stronger.

That her father has always doted on her is no comfort. After all, it’s his fault her mother ran away, far away to their family home in Spain - so far that she couldn’t follow. Still being a minor, her father refuses to let her travel. Miguel, her troublemaking brother, takes up their father’s time and attention as he rescues him out of one scrape after another.

The wine barrel aging cave at the far end of the vineyard is her sanctuary, the secret place she retreats to when she feels alone and longing for the mother who deserted her. She pours the flammable chemical on the barrel and flicks the lighter. The oak wood kegs are like kindling and instantly glow with mesmerizing flames. Embers from the one keg decide to jump to the next and the next, and soon the entire shed is ablaze. The flames are higher than she expected, the blaze more encompassing than she had planned. The acrid black smoke billows out and almost blinds her, but she stands in place stunned, entranced. The sight is dangerous and magical at the (snip)

This opening has its virtues: it introduces an interesting character who is clearly doing something wrong, so we can wonder about consequences. However, there are no stakes mentioned, although being burned is an implied possibility. Was it enough for a page turn?

Craft and “reality” issues proved too much of an impediment for this reader despite the drama of the scene. The first stumbling block was “the flammable chemical.” Specifics create reality, vagueness creates not much. The reader will much better “see” what’s happening if you are specific as to what the liquid is. If it is gasoline, then many readers will also be able to smell it, and will have a clear idea of how violently flammable it is. But that, other than some comma faults, isn’t the main issue for me.

I suspect many readers may not have enough fire-lighting experience to spot this logic flaw—a logic flaw is when the reality of what is possible is ignored by what the narrative has happen. In this case, it is the nature of the wood she is burning. Oak is a hardwood and is difficult to get lighted. The flammable liquid she uses would certainly get the job done, but oak can be temperamental and end up smoldering. It’s also known for clean burning, which means that the embers and smoke reported in the narrative are unlikely, and it’s also unlikely that the other barrels will ignite at all, much less as easily as is portrayed here. Bottom line, my personal understanding of what’s happening with the wood undermines the credibility of the story. Too picky? Maybe so, but a good copyeditor would likely point out the same logic flaw. Your thoughts?

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Michelle sends the first chapter of a fantasy/sci fi novel, Teddie Bear in Space . The first 17 lines follow, and the rest of the chapter is after the break.

The ears were soft and molded, measured exactly to fit the parameters of his head, and curved on top like bear ears. Felix had worked hard to earn those ears, studying till the late hours, working counseling jobs on the side, and undergoing rigorous physical workouts. He’d been hugged so tight he couldn’t breathe, he’d been sobbed on, slapped, tear-kissed, and thrown across the room. Being a Teddie Bear wasn’t an easy task when on board a ship traveling in between dimensions in the Blankensphere.

T.E.D.D.I.E. stood for Trusted- Educated- Deferential- Dedicated- Inspirational- Extrapolator and B.E.A.R. stood for Bearing- Extreme- Apprehension- and Rage. Since the Blankensphere was discovered 20 years ago, and the ships developed to traverse it, Teddie Bears had been assigned to assist in case of any possible tensions the crew might feel. After the first few missions when the sheer unexplained lack of air and space outside the ship’s windows had reduced large portions of the crew to shreds of anxious humanity, Teddie Bears had become necessary officers. Even the Captains were required to be examined by them regularly.

Felix was an experienced Teddie Bear although he was just 22-years-old. But now, as he placed the ears on his head and packed a second pair down into one of his suitcases, he had to admit that this mission was bound to be different. Now that the Blankensphere wasn’t receiving signals from the other side they’d be flying even more blind than usual.

This opening page signals a richly imagined sci fi world, but does it signal a problem ahead for Felix? For me, pausing the narrative to give the words that make up the teddie bear acronyms was a definite speed bump. There is a tease in that this mission was bound to be different and they’d be flying blind, but there’s no actual story question. Or consequences—“flying blind” sounds like a bad thing, but what happens if they do? The opening focuses on setup to the expense of creating tension. Instead of putting on bear ears—and we don’t know their function—and packing a suitcase, how about having something happen/go wrong that Felix, with his abilities as a teddie bear, has to deal with?

Reading on, there’s lots and lots of exposition, setup, and illustration of the world of the story. But there was no story. After he's done packing, we see the environment and then Felix goes to the ship he’s to fly on and then . . . he goes to his office on the ship he’ll travel on. There are no challenges, no issues he has to deal with. There’s more musing about facing danger, but we don’t know what that danger is and what the character has to do with it. I urge Vicky to scrap most of this chapter and look for that point in the story when something goes wrong for Felix that he MUST deal with or something untoward will happen. A richly imagined world is a good thing, but only when something compelling is happening in it. For what it’s worth.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Michelle sends the first chapter of Colorless Rainbows. The first 17 lines follow, and the rest of the chapter is after the break.

Is it morning yet? Kind of a dumb question to ask when I’m staring at my ceiling and see darkness. My eyes roam to my digital alarm clock. Three-forty-three A.M. I stare at it until my eyes cross and ache in exhaustion. It doesn’t make me any sleepier, but it does make my eyes water.

I notice how the light from the streetlights slithers between the blinds on my bedroom window. The narrow, orange bars on my wall make my room look like a jail cell. I might as well be in jail considering this is an awful punishment. I’ll force my eyes closed if I must; I need to sleep.

For the past six months, I’ve been unable to get a full night’s sleep for more than a few days at a time. I’ve tried everything the Internet suggests to fix this: green tea, meditation, setting a routine…

Perhaps that’s part of the problem; I hear spending too much time on the computer screws with your sleep cycles, something about blue lights.

Sometimes I’ll have bad dreams. I’ll wake up to flashbacks of the night of September 14th, cry, and never get back to sleep. They love to butt into my stream of consciousness when my mind is most active, right in between the hundreds of songs I’ve memorized and scenes from my favorite cartoons. So it’s either pray I get a normal dream, experience a realistic nightmare that (snip)

There are a few fixable writing craft issues, which I’ll address in my notes below. The voice is personable and appropriate for a first-person narrative. But what about the storytelling? Is there a story question raised on this page?

Nope. We open with a character waking up, a clichéd opening that will get you into trouble with a literary agent from the get-go. After a bit of musing about what time it is and streetlights, we lapse into backstory and a reference to a past event that is unclear. There really is no “what happens next” question raised here. Later in the chapter the character has an unusual vision while in class and passes out. I think that’s where the story needs to begin. Notes:

Is it morning yet? Kind of a dumb question to ask when I’m staring at my ceiling and see darkness. My eyes roam to my digital alarm clock. Three-forty-three A.M. I stare at it until my eyes cross and ache in exhaustion. It doesn’t make me any sleepier, but it does make my eyes water. It’s a common error to have eyes doing things they can’t do in reality, such as leave their sockets and roam over to an alarm clock. Her gaze can do this, but not her eyes.

I notice how the light from the streetlights slithers between the blinds on my bedroom window. The narrow, orange bars on my wall make my room look like a jail cell. I might as well be in jail considering this is an awful punishment. I’ll force my eyes closed if I must; I need to sleep. The “I notice” is a filter and not needed. Just start with what the character is experiencing, in this case the light slithering. The bars on a jail cell are generally vertical, the slats in blinds are generally horizontal, so I don’t see how the orange bars replicate jail-cell bars. The “this” pronoun has an uncertain antecedent, at best. The punishment is orange bars on her wall? Didn’t make sense to me.

For the past six months, I’ve been unable to get a full night’s sleep for more than a few days at a time in a row. I’ve tried everything the Internet suggests to fix this: green tea, meditation, setting a routine…

Perhaps that’s part of the problem; I hear spending too much time on the computer screws with your sleep cycles, something about blue lights.

Sometimes I’ll have bad dreams. I’ll wake up to flashbacks of the night of September 14th, cry, and never get back to sleep. They love to butt into my stream of consciousness when my mind is most active, right in between the hundreds of songs I’ve memorized and scenes from my favorite cartoons. So it’s either pray I get a normal dream, experience a realistic nightmare that (snip) The reference to the night of September 14th, with nothing to tell the reader what happened, is essentially meaningless to the reader. Either let us know what it is or don’t include it. You don’t need meaningless words on the first page where you are trying to hook a reader.

What's a first page in publishingland? In a properly formatted novel manuscript (double-spaced, 1-inch margins, 12-point type, etc.) there should be about 16 or 17 lines on the first page. Directions for submissions are below—they include a request to post the rest of the chapter, but that’s optional.

The character takes action. Can be internal or external action: thoughts, deeds, emotions. This does NOT include musing about whatever.

There’s enough of a setting to orient the reader as to where things are happening.

It happens in the NOW of the story.

Backstory? What backstory? We’re in the NOW of the story.

Set-up? What set-up? We’re in the NOW of the story.

The one thing it must do: raise a story question.

Linzmarie sends the first chapter of Command the Ocean . The first 17 lines follow, and the rest of the chapter is after the break.

This was a really bad idea. Probably the worst idea, Anson had ever had in his 38 years on the earth (he had some truly terrible ones- marriage #1, marriage #2) and the sea seemed to agree as it mixed with the sky in a whirling, torrential, violet, yelling monstrosity shrieking at him. He looked back at the man he had dragged on this wretched escapade and couldn’t even see him amid the downpour.

Wait, a light in the night, there was the lantern, blackened on three sides. “Blackbeard” is whom the miller’s friend had said he had seen near the abandoned part of the island. A 200-year-old ghost of a headless pirate was not a helpful description even of a phantom in the dark. “A man,” was his boy’s less fantastical suggestion. Their progress patrolling the beach was painfully slow. Anson wondered if they would even make it to see if it was haint or man or just be consumed by weather.

“Samuel!” Anson yelled. The wind carried back his message down the beach to the cook. “Bowser,” Anson called using the cook’s surname as well as if there was any doubt to whom he was bellowing. He hadn’t wanted to bring the cook. He had wanted to bring another surfman, someone who would know how to patrol the beach. The station keeper forbade him from taking any of the lifesavers so he brought the cook, which in the fall of 1893 meant a Negro and someone who had little to no lifesaving experience. “Samuel!” he called again.

While there’s some vivid imagination in this immediate scene, and it does portray trouble for the character, I’m afraid the craft isn’t ready for prime time yet. For me, there were several clarity issues on this page, which foreshadows more to come.

Issue: where are they? The reference to the sea suggests that the character is on a boat, but he isn’t. We don’t learn until the third paragraph that they’re afoot on a beach.

Issues: there are problems with antecedents for pronouns. See my notes below.

Issue: some overwriting, see my notes.

There are more things that led to confusion for me. I suggest that this writer make it a habit of reading the narrative aloud. Her ear may pick up on some of these things—this sounds like a promising story set in the 1800s, but it hasn’t made it to the page yet. Here are some editorial notes:

This was a really bad idea. Probably the worst idea, Anson had ever had in his 38 years on the earth (he had some truly terrible ones- marriage #1, marriage #2) and the sea seemed to agree as it mixed with the sky in a whirling, torrential, violet, yelling monstrosity shrieking at him. He looked back at the man he had dragged on this wretched escapade and couldn’t even see him amid the downpour. The opening word, "this," is a pronoun without an antecedent. As such, it has no meaning because the reader doesn't know what it refers to. This is one of my pet peeves, and I see it frequently. There's no place for meaningless words in a story, especially on the first page. "38" should be spelled out: thirty-eight. Also, did you mean "violent" where you wrote "violet?" You need to make careful proofreading a part of what you do before sharing your writing with others. Reading aloud might have caught this.

Wait, a light in the night, there was the lantern, blackened on three sides. “Blackbeard” is whom the miller’s friend had said he had seen near the abandoned part of the island. A 200-year-old ghost of a headless pirate was not a helpful description even of a phantom in the dark. “A man,” was his boy’s less fantastical suggestion. Their progress patrolling the beach was painfully slow. Anson wondered if they would even make it to see if it was haint or man or just be consumed by weather. I became completely lost at "Blackbeard." What is this sentence talking about? We jump from a description of a lantern to something the miller's friend said. It turns out that they're looking for a man who was seen on the beach and the person who reported it called it "Blackbeard." This could be fixed, eg. Anson was searching for a man the miller's friend called "Blackbeard" and who was seen near the abandoned part of the island. You need to keep the reader in mind and include the clues they need to understand what's going on. The highlighted "their" is another pronoun antecedent issue: it refers to the miller's friend and his boy, but the writer's intent was to refer to Anson and the black man. A major clarity issue.

“Samuel!” Anson yelled. The wind carried back his message down the beach to the cook. “Bowser,” Anson called using the cook’s surname as well as if there was any doubt to whom he was bellowing. He hadn’t wanted to bring the cook. He had wanted to bring another surfman, someone who would knowknew how to patrol the beach. The station keeper had forbiddenforbade him from taking any of the lifesavers so he had brought the cook, which in the fall of 1893 meant a Negro and someone who had little to no lifesaving experience. “Samuel!” he called again. The deleted sentence is a bit of overwriting--the inclusion of micro detail that doesn't impact the story. It surely doesn't matter if the reader knows the cook's last name at this point.